as to sing the praise of patient poverty and its
reward, and that, he supposed, together with a few periods on the reform
of the prison laws, would form the first half of his speech.

The second part was to be a panegyric of Braithwaite, treating him as
the Precursor of a movement that even now had begun.

Old Mrs. Brand leaned back in her seat, and looked about her.

The window where they sat had been reserved for them; two arm-chairs
filled the space, but immediately behind there were others, standing
very silent now, craning forward, watching, too, with parted lips: a
couple of women with an old man directly behind, and other faces visible
again behind them. Their obvious absorption made the old lady a little
ashamed of her distraction, and she turned resolutely once more to the
square.

Ah! he was working up now to his panegyric! The tiny dark figure was
back, a yard nearer the statue, and as she looked, his hand went up and
he wheeled, pointing, as a murmur of applause drowned for an instant the
minute, resonant voice. Then again he was forward, half crouching--for
he was a born actor--and a storm of laughter rippled round the throng of
heads. She heard an indrawn hiss behind her chair, and the next instant
an exclamation from Mabel.... What was that?

There was a sharp crack, and the tiny gesticulating figure staggered
back a step. The old man at the table was up in a moment, and
simultaneously a violent commotion bubbled and heaved like water about a
rock at a point in the crowd immediately outside the railed space where
the bands were massed, and directly opposite the front of the platform.

Mrs. Brand, bewildered and dazed, found herself standing up, clutching
the window rail, while the girl gripped her, crying out something she
could not understand. A great roaring filled the square, the heads
tossed this way and that, like corn under a squall of wind. Then Oliver
was forward again, pointing and crying out, for she could see his
gestures; and she sank back quickly, the blood racing through her old
veins, and her heart hammering at the base of her throat.

"My dear, my dear, what is it?" she sobbed.

But Mabel was up, too, staring out at her husband; and a quick babble of
talk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of the
roaring tumult of the square.

II

Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening at
home, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged